“Sir, it appears to be a lightly braised salad, served with pine nuts and a light aeoli.”

“You must not be as versed in herb as I am Jerryl, this is DEVIL’S WEED!” The Pureblood picks up a fork full of the plant and jabs it in the air towards the Butler.

Nonplussed the Butler explains, “It certainly does explain the behavior of the gentleman farmer.”

The frustrated Pureblood sulks, “Really now, explain.”

“He was going on and on about how he developed a new strain of plant in the middle of the night and how it was to ‘die for’, and how tasty it would be for the bar he manages in El Dorado."

As Jerryl mused over this, the Butler “To be quite fair, the gentleman was quite inebriated when we purchased the goods. In hindsight, we probably should have been warned of it when he began to cackle madly. Perhaps it was his delightful red garb that distracted us so?”

The Pureblood winces at this sad excuse and seemingly by reflex absentmindedly places the fork full of Devil’s Weed into his mouth.

Jerryl gasps, “Sir! The Weed! What are you doing!?”

The Pureblood stops in his tracks his hands balled into fists, his face turning a deep and dark red.

“This dish… This dish…”

The Butler begins to hustle towards the door, his hands nervously struggling to turn the knob.

The Pureblood slams his fists on the table and exclaims, the fork finally dropping from his mouth “Jerryl don’t you dare take another step!”

“But Sir I must get the Doctor! You look positively besides yourself! It might be some sort of reaction!”

“Nothing of the sort Jerryl! This dish… This dish… IS DELICIOUS! EL DORADO CUISINE TRULY IS TO DIE FOR!” The Pureblood begins to guffaw like a child dizzy on lemonade and proceeds to stuff his mouth full of the dish.

The Butler sighs, “Well at least it spares me the effort of having the Farmer killed...”

_______________________________________________________________

The trackers make their way through the blazing hot sun, the coarse earth beneath their feet sweating with humidity besides the miles of snaking road. Even though the asphalt and concrete track has been repaired, the road though is still dangerous and wild.

“C’mon Clem we’re never gonna find any game out like this. It’s too damn hot!”

“I know I know, let’s pull... WOAH! Hold it Jimbo!”

Jimbo stops in place, his hand on his gun. “Why’d we stop? See any Boar tracks out there?”

“No, jus like the damn weirdest fuckin marks I’ve ever fuckin seen.”

“Like what?”

“Well let’s see.” Clem approaches down on his hands and knees following the path of the tracks.

“See this one? Looks like it came from a ride-bike, a fast one too. Scraps of leather in the dirt, must’ve been a DJ ride. Looks like a Leadfoot Brand in the tire.”

“For a Natty you sure know a lot about DJs.”

“My Ex was one. Pillow talk was nothin' but just grease, oil, and ride schematics.”

Jimbo cringes, “Gross. Carry on about the tires.”

Clem puts up a finger, “Then the Tracks stop, as if by a hand-brake.”

“DJ’s are known to do that.”

“Then the ride tracks just completely disappear.”

“Wait what?”

Clem shuffles off to the side following the tracks like a scrounger in deep bushes, “There’s the track marks, then both boot marks and track and then the track marks just completely disappear.”

“Holy shit. What did they go?”

“Dunno, but it looks like the Boot prints got a whole lot heavier. See how they dig into the earth here, must be a solid half an inch.” He digs his fingers into the loamy soil, “It’s like the DJ just suddenly gained a couple extra-hundred pounds outta nowhere.”

“Why would a DJ just stop in the middle of the road? Don’t make a lick of...” Something suddenly catches Jimbo’s eye, a patch of white off by the side of the road. It’s an abandoned Trade Union road sign, likely left behind by neglectful construction workers despite the fact that this line of Road has perfectly safe for months.

The sign notes in clear letters, “ROAD WORKS IN PROGRESS, PLEASE PROCEED ON FOOT. CARRY ALL SUPPLIES BY HAND.”

Jimbo murmurs, “So when the DJ thought they were supposed to carry all their Supplies by hand did they just...”

“There’s foot-prints here two inches deep.”

“Talk about carryin' the ride before the cart…”

________________________________________________________________

The aged Merican enters the farmhouse. His gear completely covered with thick grimy muck. The others at the table look at him with curiosity.

“Paw what the heckin happened to you!?”

The Merican leans back on a weathered old rocking chair and lifts his filth encrusted shoes.

“I’ll tell you zacktly what happened. We defended the farm from an intruder!”

The others lean in, cups of steaming hot brown at their hands.

One of them, a Solestros woman whispers, “An Intruder?”

“You betcha! He came in drunk as a Radskunk and covered in a whole mess of cloth. A jacket from some dude and a DJ cut that wus as black as sin. Upon his brow were at least three hats that screamed at the sky! He carried a coffin shaped shield in the proudest of Merican colors! He bellowed aloud with the forces of twenty DJ rides, a real hero of the wastes!” The venerable Merican coughs in embarrassment, his voice lowering “He... was also covered in head to toe in very silky undergarments...”

“What’d he do!”

“He tried to pinch our Pig!”

“Really!?”

“You betcha but before we threw him the heck outta the barn he picked up the Pig by the haunches, slapped some Leopard Print underwear on him, and proclaimed it to be the one true king of the Wastes.”

“That’s amazin’. What’d the pig think?”

“He loved every second of it.”

________________________________________________________________

"Hey, you ever read anything written by that double-bagger printer? The one with the books and guns and scarves and all?"

"I’m not really the bookish type. Why?"

"The other night I’m in EDHA getting my leg fixed, right? And they have some stuff she’s written on the shelf, like in the waiting area."

"What, you gonna take forever to tell this story? We got some serious fishin' to do, and need to get the boat off the slip!"

"So, anyways I pick it up to take a look, yeah? Supposed to be some kinda guide for new arrivals, Greenzone type stuff."

"Hey, get to the point! What did this printer do?"

"Hmmph. As I was saying...so I’m just barely starting to read when I hear a gunshot and the book is knocked clean out of my hands. I’m like, what the hell, right? I look up and there she is, the writer, staring me down, gun still smoking. She marches over, grabs her own book off the ground, and starts tearing it up right in front of me."

"Wow, this is getting interesting! What’d you do?"

"Well I just said, “what was that for?” and she shoves this ball of unbound paper in my hands and says “New edition.”"

"What did it say?"

"Just scribbles, complete nonsense! Then she starts screaming over and over, “No, new fish! No!” and runs off."

"Oh, I heard Greenzone doesn’t like that term. Call them "new arrivals" or "potential citizens.""

“Some maniac Iron Slave!” the man sobbed. "He was dressed in this red and gold armor, and dual wielding shovels!"

"Wearing armor, and using shovels, and he did this?", queried the DJ skeptically. "You sure you didn't have run in with Warpath?"

"No!", the Solestros wailed. "You don't understand! He came tunneling up FROM THE GROUND, collapsing everything around him."

"Wait, hold on. Are you sure you aren't on some Spirit Walk, and Diggers actually did this? No one can dig that well", said the DJ.

The Solestros replied, "I'm not exaggerating! Diggers don't glow red, and don't talk! He popped up through my living room floor just as easily as you and I walk through a door! As I was making dinner! Suffice it to say, that's gone too. Said he was mining to the Earth’s core, then tunneled back down again! That's when the house really started falling apart. It was awful!”

The DJ removed his bandana, dabbing beads of sweat off of his forehead. “Sweet, merciful Hera,” he murmured.

_______________________________________________________________

The sounds of wild howls split the night, waking the DJ from his sleep. “The fuck was that!?” he yelped, quickly grabbing his gun.

Danny remembered the Semper. Aggressive, even kinda cute in a DJ sort of way when he fought.

Danny lay back, shaking his head slowly. “Okay, then,” he replied. “Just a crazy person. Nothing to worr--oh, god! What’s that sound!? Is he…oh, fuck! I think he’s peeing on one of the tires! That’s him peeing!”

And from outside, they heard a low voice. “My caravan! I own it now! I own everything! AWOOOO!!!”

“Aw, man!” another one responded. “I’m out. Wait, hold on. How much for this shotgun bullet?”

His offer was met with peals of laughter around the table. “A single bullet!?” the first Merican roared. “Haha, nothing! Why would anyone want a single bullet?”

The second Merican cleared his throat. “This ain’t no ordinary bullet, though,” he clarified. “This here’s a magic bullet. Cursed to turn on its owner. Why, I saw it ricochet off a pipe, hit the top of some Vegasian’s pimp cane, and bounce off of a hanging frying pan. The frying pan then fell and knocked some poor bastard out cold.”

“No fucking way,” a third one exclaimed. “I heard that the one who got hit was the same on who shot it. I heard he knocked himself the fuck out with the recoil.”

“Yeah, man,” the second Merican said. “That’s the one. He shot it, but it ricocheted and knocked him the fuck out. Even knocked his hat off in the process. He was damn near naked, poor guy. And he was a Merican, too. That’s a hat related crime if there ever was one!”

“Fine,” the first Merican conceded. “I’ll pay you two cred for it. Might as well buy the bullet so I can arrest it for hat related crimes.”

_______________________________________________________________

BANG! BANG! BANG!

“Hey, what’s that?” The Reclaimer hurriedly stopped the caravan and opened the slide to the back. “The fuck are you doing back there!?”

His son gave him a sheepish grin in response, holding his pistol. There were several holes in the wall, and one of their flashlights had been shattered. “Sorry, Pops,” he replied, running his other hand through his unruly mop of red hair.

“Are you shooting things in the caravan!?” his father demanded. The boy nodded. “Why the fuck would you do that, eh?” he exploded.

“Well,” his son replied. “I was hunting for food this morning around the last place we stopped to resupply, and I saw this guy shooting a lamp, trying to get it to turn on. I asked him his name, but I forgot it. I think he said it was some kind of bird.”

His father shook his head slowly. “Did the lamp actually turn on?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“Well, no,” came the reply. “But I figured we’re more clever, so I’d give it a go, eh?”

His father rolled his eyes. “Yeah, that’s right clever, kid,” he retorted. He gestured to the mess in a wide sweep with his hand. “Clean that shit up. You’d better get us another flashlight at the next place we supply. And if you shoot anything else that isn’t food or a threat, I’ll put the boots to ya!”

“Yessir!” the boy replied respectfully, saluting with the hand holding the gun. Another shot rang out, this time shattering a mirror. “Uh…oops!”

His father just wordlessly closed the slide. That kid was the worst of his siblings. “Always listenin’ to the bucket heads and their stupid stories,” he muttered. “You’ve got too much of your mother in ya.”

_______________________________________________________________

“So, are you an orphan?”

“...What?”

The bearded Rover irritably twirled his shiny scarf in his fingers. “Are you an orphan?” he repeated. “Think about your dead parents!” He held a small cup out under the confused girl’s face. “Cry about it into here.”

The girl looked at him blankly. “Uh,” she replied. “Both of my parents are alive, though.”

The girl began to back away slowly. “Okay, Mr. Whoever-You-Are,” she replied, the same way one would talk to a deranged person. “I’m going to go now. You...uh, keep on being, uh...you know what? Just, maybe stay there?” She hurried off, leaving the Rover awkwardly holding an empty cup.

“Fuck!” the Rover exclaimed. He turned to the next person he saw. “Are you an orphan?” he demanded. The child just stared at him, eyes wide. “Are you an orphan!?” he repeated, grabbing the kid’s shoulders and shaking him hard. “Answer me!”

“What the fuck is he doing?” one Lascarian asked the other as they passed the screaming, ranting Rover with his arms wrapped about a knobby wooden tree trunk.

“Shaking a tree and thinking it’s a kid that owes him money from the looks of it,” the other one replied. “I’d suggest eating him, but to be honest, I don’t wanna catch his crazy.”

“Yeah, me neither,” the first one agreed. He cupped his hands and called out to the Rover. “You go shake that orphan down for money! That is absolutely not a tree, you perceptive, totally not crazy person! Follow your dreams!”

________________________________________________________________

The two Darwins looked at each other with alarm as the Fallow Retrograde rummaged through their belongings. “Uh, so...we were just taking them to be destroyed,” one of them offered lamely, holding his hand over the symbol of his faith emblazoned on his shirt. “Praise the Minister General!”

“Yeah!” the second one added. “Kill the hellfire or whatever!”

The Retrograde turned toward them, her hands full of confiscated glowing green rods. They even made her eyes seem to glow in their radioactive light. “Heresy,” she said, her lips splitting into a wild grin that quickly spread to the rest of her face.

“You know what?” the first Darwin said quickly. “You can totally keep them. Yeah, they’re all yours. Let’s get the hell out of here!”

As the two of them began to hurry away, they heard the Retrograde murmur something. Curiosity got the better of them, and they turned, slowing briefly.

“Heresy,” the Fallow Retrograde repeated. She hugged the rods close, like an old friend she hadn't seen in years. She unceremoniously threw herself to the ground, spreading some of the rods around her like a makeshift nest. “Sweet, forbidden heresy.” She began to roll around in the pile of rods, still clutching some to herself. “I missed you all so much!”

“Okay,” the second Darwin said. “Now I’ve seen everything. Let’s get the hell out of here and never speak of this again.”

_______________________________________________________________

“So, there I was,” the rather short Merican began, looking at the rapt faces of his gambling buddies. “Lookin’ at the pile of scrap metal that was once my shiny new convertible caravan.”

“Ho-lee shit, Dave,” a second Merican interrupted. “You broke the caravan you just fucking got?”

“Yeah, I’m gettin’ to it,” Dave retorted irritably. “Anyway, I’m sittin’ there wonderin’, ‘the fuck did I hit?’ Now, my glasses had flown off on impact, see, so I couldn’t see anything but the red of a night light. I wasn’t sure if it was a boy, a girl, or neither. But it was moving. Somehow, I didn’t just kill it.”

“Okay, then what happened?” A Vegasian leaned in, forgetting for a moment about the fifth ace in his sleeve.

Dave cleared his throat, “Well,” he continued. “Me stranded in the middle of nowhere without my glasses would make me some quick and easy zed chow. Only before I could get out of the caravan, I felt it move.”

“The whole damn caravan,” Dave confirmed. “Whoever this clink was, they were as strong as an ox and twice as driven. They just started dragging the wreck all the way to the next Rover waystation. On the way, I managed to make out that it was a woman, but like I said, I couldn’t see for shit.”

“Gad-dang,” another Merican breathed. “So, where’s your caravan now?”

Dave sighed, his smile fading slightly, but only slightly. He still clearly found the story amusing. “That’s the thing,” he replied. “Soon as I got off, the Iron Slave just kept going. She picked up the front of the caravan and just walked off into the night. I called out after her, but she didn’t move. Me bein’ all blind, I just had to go to the waystation and hope one of those scarvies had an extra pair o’ glasses. Luckily, they did, an’ they escorted me on back home. An’ here I am, safe and sound.”

“Man,” the Vegasian murmured. “You know what, Dave? I never do this, but your next drink’s on me. You look like you could use it.”

“Yeah,” the second Merican chimed in. “And after that, I’ll buy you one!”

The rest of the group joined in, and Dave smiled. Whoever that crazy Iron Slave was, she was all right in his book. Not that he could read.

_______________________________________________________________

“I’m gonna go out and see what I can scrounge up,” says a Lascarian, grabbing their cleaver from a ramshackle table as they head for the door.

“Won’t find nothin’” A second Lascarian sips a steaming drink out of a chipped teacup, not even looking up. She looks shaken up.

“Why? You been out?” The first Lascarian questions.

“Damn right I did. Nothin’ left. I just got back in.”

The cleaver is set back on the table, disheartened. “Well, what did you find?”

“Nothin’.” She sets her cup down. “And everything. Woman dressed all in red was sitting on a pile of scraps, as lordly as you please. Thought it was a laskie at first, with all the masks she was wearing, but it was a canner. When I got close, I realized she was singing to it.”

“No way they spotted you,” came the incredulous reply.

“Nah, she saw me try to snag a bit of scrap. Hit me in the eye with a Breakmist Grape. Demanded I pay a tax.”

“A tax? Did you pay?”

“Fuck yes I did. I’m not taking any chances with a woman willing to weaponize food.”

______________________________________________________________

A Rover closes the driver’s side door of her caravan and tosses her deer-j into the backseat. “So, that was a popoff. Red star on his hat and everything. Ass flag, very severe.”

Her friend looks confused. “A popoff? What’s it doing out here?”

“Tinking.” The Rover twists the screwdriver in the ignition and the engine sputters to life.

“...tinking?” Her friend repeats, looking out the window once again in confusion. “This is the middle of nowhere.”

“That’s what I told him.” She pulls her goggles down. “Doesn’t seem to be stopping him.”

“So he’s drunk. We should take him to the next town.”

“That was my next question. Insisted he wasn’t drunk. Needed to be efficient.”

“What, he has a reason for being out there?”

“Something about chief engineers seizing the means of production? I’m not sure. He was hammering pretty loudly.”

“You mean to tell me that he has something to build that is so important that he decided to sit down-”

“-yea.”

“-and start building it-”

“-yup.”

“-right in the middle of the road-”

“Uh-huh.”

“-without a town nearby?”

“Looked to me like a lamp.”

______________________________________________________________

The trapdoor leading out of the dark hovel flipped open with a loud groan and morning light spilled down.

“I’m gonna hand you down a person,” the Solestros at the mouth of it says, grunting with the effort of dragging something.

“A person?” echoes the Rover below. There is a lot of straining, and then the limp form of a Natural One in cow-leather armor is maneuvered into their home. The Rover, blinking away sleep, lights a lamp.

“I thought we talked about this,” she says to the Solestros, but he shrugs her off.

“Aw, poor thing,” the Rover tsks, trying to rouse the bearded lump now draped over their kitchen table. “What was he doing?”

“Er, singing,” the Solestros admits.

“Singing?” the Rover’s eyebrows knit together as she tries to do the math. “Doesn’t sound too crazy if he’s a courtier.”

“Nope, he’s got lanterns.”

The Natural One grunts and throws his arms over his face without acknowledging the Rover’s attempts to talk to him. Both his hands are bound.

“Okay, singing, about…? Why’s he tied up?”

“Idunno, being free? About finally escaping his cage?” At the Rover’s incredulous expression, the Solestros hurriedly explains- “That’s not what made him seem deranged. It was when he came at me screaming about how he was gonna teach me how to fix myself. I didn’t say anything to him, either. I swear. Was just walking past. He almost beat the shit out of me like he was an expert swordsman. I’m thinking thrillkill.”

The Rover listens to the Natty One’s heartbeat for a moment, and then shakes her head. “Nah, no thrillkill. This man’s drunk as a Merican mob.”

_______________________________________________________________

“You motherfucker, if you die, I swear-!”

A Rover gently slaps the bark-covered face of a nation of ascensor, trying to rouse him, until the bearded man twists awake, sputtering water over his already dripping-wet Fallow armor.

“There you go. Breathe. Air. You nearly drowned yourself, you stupid son of a bitch.”

“Water...,” he slurs, waving the Rover’s attempts to help him sit up away. He reaches a mossy arm back towards the river. “Hydr…d…”

The Rover slaps the Fallow’s face again, trying to regain his attention.

“Give it a rest.”

“Gon wilt,” he slurs back at the Rover, wrapping his hand in a tail of the drenched scarf and pulling it onto his face.

“We already had this conversation while you were still in the waterfall. You’re not actually a plant. It’s just an as-let that go.” The Rover detangles his charge’s hands from his clothing with increasingly more agitated movements.

“Mmfhant.” Unthinking, the Nation’s now-freed hand goes into one of his pockets and out comes a soggy sandwich. “Wan? Made o’ real sheps. Shepsand.”

The Rover takes the sandwich and tosses it very aggressively back into the water.

“No. Don’t you people have commanding officers or something?”

“Can’t control plants,” the NoA responds, trying to wring water out of his still-worn shoe.

“Goddammit, this is my day off. I shouldn’t be needing to babysi- STOP TAKING YOUR CLOTHES OFF; IT’S CALLED ‘WHERE THE SUN DON’T SHINE’ FOR A REASON.”

_______________________________________________________________

A Solestros leans on his shovel, head cocked to the side with a curious look on his face. In front of him, a Merican in worn jeans and full white, blue, and red regalia is beating the ground with a patchwork metal shield.

The Merican pauses to remove his star-and-striped hat to mop sweat, before replacing it. “I’m knocking the ground away with my shield.”

“Yer what now?”

BAM.

“Knocking the ground away.”

BAM.

“That’s what I thought you said. Sure you don’t want this shovel?”

BAM BAM BAM.

“No, this is my mining shield.”

“You’ve been at this for over an hour,” the Solestros comments, “and you’ve not made any progress.”

The Merican drops to the ground, pressing his cheek against the ground to gauge the depth of the hole.

“Nah. Look there. There’s an indent. I’m almost done.”

He grabs his shield again, and once against begins rhythmically hitting the ground with renewed energy.

“K, then, I’ll just go dig in a different spot, see if I can’t find some of your marbles you’ve misplaced.”

________________________________________________________________

“I’ll never eat again,” an Iron bemoans from facedown on the ground next to a pile of sick.

“Drug cocktail again?” the Diesel Jock standing over him snickers.

“Thought I had the score of the century. Pretty little remnant cook with big-ass horns on her head and these pretty stones growing out of her skin. I figured, four ears? Eh, that could be fun. She was going on about how Spring was when she got in the mood, right?”

“I don’t know anything about remnants and their mating seasons work, man. I just drive where my clan tells me. Sometimes I find other DJs, sometimes not. Never really went for leftovers.”

“Okay, but the cook part?”

“Yea, okay. I haven’t had a good meal in weeks.”

“That’s what I thought. She offers to cook for me. Something special. Just requires a shoe.”

“A….what now? Is that an innuendo?”

“Nope. Turns out she wanted to make some kind of sandwich. I turned her down. You know what she ended up making instead?”

“Can’t be worse than a shoe sandwich.”

“I guess it’s not supposed to be eaten alone. Goes into other shit, but she said she didn’t know what to cook it in, so we just ate it. ...an entire block of cheese, just the two of us.”

“Cheese! Where’d she get the- Oh, fuck, I don’t even want to ask that question, do I?”

_______________________________________________________________

“HELP!” screams a Merican, wounded hobbling fueled only by piss and vinegar.

An older Diesel Jock with a Fallow symbol emblazoned on his shield dashes over, uncorking a small flask as he runs.

“Shit, son, how long have you been like this?”

He pours the brew into the Merican’s mouth, amidst spluttering coughs from the enfeebled welc.

“Fuck, too long. Much obliged.”

With renewed energy, the Merican reaches into his pocket, but the Fallow stops him with a flat palm.

“The Lord Commander put you in my path. It is his will you lived.”

“Well if you keep heading that way, you’ll find a fakeblood in your path, and you can see what the ol’ L.C. wills then.”

The Fallow looks the Merican up and down. “Vegasian did this to you?”

“Abso-fuckin-lutely. There’s a courtier over there, silver zebra striped bullshit jingling around, playing a sultry tune on his … idk what the fuck he was using, and I ask him what he’s up to, cuz that kinda racket would pull zed. He says ‘wooing hunters’. Lo and behold, out pops a hunter. BAM. Swings for a leg. Not mine, mind you, but somehow my leg ends up in his path. Damn fakebloods. Now I’ve got a broken leg and that hunter takes me right down. Instead of helping me, the Vegasian grabs my hat, throws it on the zed, and jingles off with it following.”

“Wooing hunters,” the Fallow repeats incredulously. “A Vegasian covered in silver, and you expect me to believe it wasn’t a robbery mishap?”

“No it - I swear to the gods that motherfucker said he was wooing a hunter. If you hurry, you might catch the tail end of their wedding. Damn fakebloods.”

_______________________________________________________________

"What up Zeke, how ya been bud?", said the Merican farmer, knee deep in the stream with his fishing rod outstretched.

"It's a fine day, my good fellow. The weather is pleasantly tolerable, the Devil's Wind is muted this year, and I am enjoying the respite before the Drive Thru begins. How is it with you and yours?"

"Well, my wife and kids are swell, thanks for asking. Had a run in with some Raiders last Tuesday, but I drove 'em off pretty quick. Heard some stuff was really crazy in El Dorado last trade. People are still talking about it."

"Was it another invasion? Did they uncover a plot to take over the town? Was it some maniacal Mad Scientist threatening to blow up the town?", asked Zeke.

"Naw, nothing like that. Seems a bunch of them got lit with some go go juice, and started raising hell all over the place. The stories that are coming back are pretty crazy."